Things Mother Used to Say
by Graywolf24
Summary: "...Oh how you wish it wasn't him. Him with his rude, unassuming desire. Him with his quiet, unreachable eyes, and his carefully guarded heart. Oh how you wish your eyes had never met as children. But mostly you wish you could have receded into the shadows undetected by his fiery gaze..." I'm back with a new story. It's been so long!


Oneshot.

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Mother always used to say that when you fell in love it would shake you to your very core, and nothing would ever be the same. She would give you a cliché speech of how it is the most blissful experience.

Mother never told you that you would fall for your tormentor.

That when he grabs your arm and snogs you in a broom closet one year, drunk out of his senses at a party, that your head would feel dizzy and you'd become lost in him. When his fingers leave bruises on your thighs and his teeth break the skin around your collarbone, you'd crave more even though you cry in bed that night.

She never told you that you'd grow a fond attachment to his platinum blonde hair, and how it almost looks like a halo in the sunlight.

That one night he would smile at you, and you'd feel a pang of sadness in your heart, because the moment he realizes that he's done it, he gets up and leaves in a huff. He makes you feel impure, like there is indeed mud running through your veins. When you follow him into the corridor, he tells you that you disgust him, and in that same moment he pins you against the stone wall, kissing you until you gasp for air.

Mother never told you how much it would hurt to watch him dance with Pansy at the ball, and how he has a seemingly permanent smile plastered across his face. Or how he'd sneak into your bedroom later that night and you'd let him rest his weary bones upon your sheets. Or even how you'd trace the places he'd touched moments after he leaves, hungry for more.

You have a scale within your heart and no matter how much the pain outweighs the happiness, you turn a blind eye to it.

You wish you knew how he would burn holes with his kisses upon your paper skin, and how much you would enjoy playing with the fire. Or no matter how completely spent and broken, you would still let him in.

Oh how you wish you could lock him out.

But his ever prying, sultry words always find a way. When you tell him that you are over your infatuation with him, and he kisses your forehead, you crumble in his arms, telling yourself that this is the last time. You make it a habit of sitting beneath scorching showers, the water turning your skin red and raw in an attempt to forget his touch, but somehow it is never enough, because he is fire, and you have become completely engulfed.

You begin keeping a diary, but you always end up tearing out the pages.

By the time you're on your 12th, you've abandoned the idea altogether. Concentration is something that eludes you and you're spinning into a perpetual path to self-destruction. But you wish, oh how you wish your mother would have told you that even upon bloody, broken knees you'd crawl to your own damnation.

Embracing it with welcoming arms.

You've become addicted to the way he smirks at you, his platinum hair falling in front of his face when he steals glances from across the hall. He seems to be studying you more than he studies his books, and you turn a bright shade of red at the realization.

You become addicted to the way he moans in your ear later that night, or how he whispers "fuck" under his breath, and how his quivering lips meet your own. You whimper beneath him, and deep down you hate how vulnerable you are.

But mostly you hate him for ruining you.

When you try to send him away for the last time, he tucks your crazed locks behind your ears, and kisses you gently upon the lips. He hikes your skirt around your waist and buries his head between your thighs, and you realize that you've given up any notion of trying to rid yourself of this gray eyed devil.

During your last year, you lock your room, because it's the same day you realize how inescapably, irrevocably in love with him you are.

"Let me in."

You can barely hear his growl through the door, and it nearly frightens you, almost as if his animalistic needs have stripped him of his humanity.

"You're not welcome here."

You wish you would have left the minute he grew quiet, but you sit with your ear to the door, hoping to hear his ragged breathing on the other side instead. Oh how you wish you would have left.

"I need you." I can't resist your godamn skin. Stop acting like a child."

"Go away."

"You drive me mad, witch."

"Then why don't you find someone that doesn't?"

When he doesn't reply, tears leak from your eyes, and you feel completely vulnerable all over again. You listen for his breathing, but you hear nothing. And at that moment you wish your mother would have told you how the heart is made of glass.

You wish you didn't open that door, and that he wasn't looking at you from the doorway with his hungry eyes. When he drags his teeth across your skin, his fingers digging harshly into your flesh, and when he thrusts into you until he has you feeling vulnerable again, you don't hold back the 'I love you,' you've held in for nearly 4 years.

Oh how you wish it wasn't him. Him with his rude, unassuming desire.

Him with his quiet, unreachable eyes, and his carefully guarded heart.

Oh how you wish your eyes had never met as children. But mostly you wish you could have receded into the shadows undetected by his fiery gaze. You carry your glass heart, the cracked pieces barely held together. He bores holes into your head the next day, but you don't dare look up. You are embarrassed and exposed, but mostly vulnerable, and oh how much you hate feeling vulnerable to this wolf.

The same wolf that you, nothing but a mere sheep, has laid her entire existence before, and become bitten by in the process.

When he knocks that night, you ignore him, even when you hear him breathing on the other side.

And the next night even though he tells you that he needs you. And the night after that when he tells you that he'll break down the door. By the time the year is nearly over, you settle with just the sound of his ragged breathing, his touch a distant memory. You hate how he's used you, and how his poetic, painful touch and his poisonous lips have carved their existence onto your flesh.

But you hate how even now, you long to seek refuge in his arms and hear his sultry voice, and to listen to him talk about his life and how unfair it has been to him.

When you turn the doorknob that night, you wish your mother would have told you it took a little less than a bottle of firewhiskey to drink yourself unconscious, and to mend your broken heart 'til morning , but mostly you wish she would have told you that a little brown haired beauty with kind eyes would fix every part of you that was broken, and your bones would long to tangle with her own, and how the smell of her perfume would sit in the back of your brain.

But every regret, every guilty thought that has invaded your mind like a calamity, ceases immediately when you see her sitting at the edge of her bed. The moonlight illuminating the tears upon her cheeks.

When she tells you that she can't do this anymore, and you kneel before her, looking into her beautiful speckled brown eyes, you swear that she has pushed past your defenses with her aggressive, unrelenting nature, burrowing her way into your very soul.

When you kiss her on the forehead and her sad eyes meet your own, you hate your pride and your ego, and the scared little boy inside you that pulls you from any commitment in a pathetic attempt at shielding you from hurt. When your kisses make their way down her cheek, and she pushes you away, you attack her mouth with your own, unable to resist the taste of her lips. And when you pin her into her sheets, and she tells you that she hates you, you let the 'I love you' that you've been holding in since the first time you called her Mudblood slip.

When she wraps her legs around your waist, and you let every indiscretion slip, you realize that it's hard to breathe in her presence but even harder without her.

And in that moment you let her love you, you with your ugly scars.

Mother always used to say that when you fell in love it would shake you to your very core, and nothing would ever be the same.

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Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed. I don't know whether or not to continue this story, or leave it as a oneshot. What do you guys think?


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